


Blades, Blood, and Bonds

by stringingwords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexa, Clexa Week 2017, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Roman!Clarke, a one shot that got a bit out of hand, gladiator!lexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9981893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringingwords/pseuds/stringingwords
Summary: Lexa is a ruthless Celtic gladiator seeking her revenge on Rome. Clarke is a Roman girl in mourning for her father who was killed in the Gallic war. Watching the games and hoping for Lexa's death seems the perfect outlet. Only Clarke's role as spectator is destined to change.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot that got kind of out of hand. I wrote it in bits and pieces on trains, planes, and subways so apologies if it seems disjointed. I really wanted to have it finished for Clexa week. 
> 
> Shoutout to @DreamsAreMyWords for the 'Commander of Death' idea.
> 
> @lapizsilkwood made an awesome moodboard you can find [here](http://lapizsilkwood.tumblr.com/post/159631934524/moodboard-gladiator-clexa-au-fanfic-blades)

Lexa closes her eyes and lets the roar of the crowd wash over her. The loudest chant by far is ‘Heda’, over and over, adulatory, like a ritual. Her official name, roughly general or commander in her native tongue. But there were others too, her unofficial nicknames; ‘Nightblood,’ because of the warpaint she wears, rumored to be the cursed blood of fallen enemies, ‘Death’, that one is self-explanatory. 

‘I am become death to survive,’ she thinks, gripping the hilts of her swords.

No shield. Heda does not defend. Heda is fearless. A whirlwind of flashing blades. 

The cacophony increases, cheers and boos, her enemies must’ve been let into the arena. She lets the thundering sound spur her heartbeat, pump through her veins. She takes a deep breath, eyeing her companions. They too are silent, stoic, engaging in their own preparation. They’ve stood together like this dozens of times not knowing if this fight would be their last. They are fearless, deadly, and she is honored to fight by their side, honored to lead them.

The doors open and they are blinded by the sunlight. The crowd erupts in cheers and hoots. Screaming for her, for them. The move to the center to salute the magistrate, a pale, fat man. Soft. The Romans are all so soft. Drunk on the victories of their forefathers. Per usual, she stands unflinching before him, refusing to give the customary gladiator salute. Heda bows before no one. The crowd knows this and cheer more loudly. They accept her stubbornness, encourage it, because it makes her more exotic, more raw in their eyes. It raises the stakes of their deadly little game. 

The magistrate nods and they turn to face their opponents. Unsurprisingly they are outnumbered again. Her and six warriors against fifteen. Fifteen more heavily armed with helmets, scutu, and gladi. So these were Romans then, either criminals or gladiators by choice. Either way bent on winning glory before their people. Lexa smirks. She loves winning, but it’s not often that she faces her real foe in the arena. Today’s victory will be exceptionally sweet. 

‘Kom war,’ she shouts, raising her sword and leading the charge. 

Her warriors follow and they clash before the Romans have a chance to form a testudo. The force of their onslaught has the crowd on their fear and Lexa feels their vigor power her fury as she sidesteps a slash and plunges her sword into her opponent’s shoulder. He bellows in pain, but she has already moved on, slashing forcefully at a shield a rather small man is cowering behind. After a minute or so she tires of this, feints to the side and gives him an opening. He lunges gleefully, but Lexa is prepared, ducking to the side and burying her sword in his belly. 

She yanks it out and looks around. Everyone seems to be handling their own. Two to one odds are nothing to them. She picks up a Roman javelin and almost lazily launches it through the air, right through the back of one of Anya’s assailants. Anya scowls, as if offended that Lexa has stolen her kill and Lexa smirks in reply. 

A couple of the Romans begin circling again and Lexa finds herself back to back with Lincoln as they parry and thrust. The fighters are mediocre, maybe some rudimentary training, Lexa thinks, but finishing them off too quickly would disappoint the crowd, and owning the crowd is key to getting her way. So they play with them, taunting, thrusting, left-hand only. Letting them pick up their sword when it drops, using kicks and fists when adequate. When she feels the show has gone on long enough she gives Lincoln a look and they simultaneously disarm both men, who immediately drop to their needs and begin to beg.

That is another thing Lexa can’t stomach, how easily the Romans beg. For all their talk they have no honor. They are scavengers, preying on the weak and sniveling before the strong. She sighs and looks towards the magistrate. They may call her ‘Death,’ but she never takes a life she doesn’t have to. They may force her to fight, but she still has her honor. When fights are short the crowd is hungry and often demand death. But they seem satisfied today and the overwhelming cry is one for mercy. 

Lexa nods, sheathing her swords and motioning for her warriors to do the same. They are all there, Anya, Lincoln, Echo, Quint, Gustus, Nyko. They’ve sustained only small cuts and bruises and look like they’ve just been through a warm-up instead of a battle. Lexa looks into the crowd, fixing them with her death stare. 

‘Is this what you like?’ she calls, voice echoing through the stands. ‘Watching Romans killed by barbarians?’

They fall silent at her arrogance, before chants of ‘Heda’ ring out again, louder and more ecstatic than ever. Honestly, they will go for anything that gets their blood pumping. She turns without saluting and marches out.

\-------

Lexa allows her mind to wander as she lies on the table, feeling the slave’s strong hands knead her muscles. They’re hardly sore, really. Her daily training with her Kru takes a lot more out of her. But it’s just the first day of the week-long games and she doesn’t mind indulging. The slave is good with his hands and she feels herself unwinding. 

She twitches at the sound from the hall, reaching for her dagger near her head, then relaxes. She knows those footsteps. 

‘The feast in underway, Heda. Your presence is required.’

Lexa doesn’t quite groan, but her huff means the same.

‘Tell me again, Indra, why we are required to wine and dine like well-trained dogs with those who’ve taken our freedom?’

‘Because their favor is the key to regaining it,’ she replies.

The disgust in her voice tells Lexa she’s no happier about it than she is and Lexa remembers her place. She lifts gracefully off the table, tunic clinging to the oil on her skin.

‘Very well,’ she replies. ‘Let us show them what the Celts are made of.’

She scoffs at the sight of the dress laid out. As if she would wear that when entering a battlefield. She chooses a pair of pants instead, knowing how the Romans despise it as ‘barbarian clothing.’ She pulls a short tunic over her torso, fitting her pauldron and cloak on top. She decides not to repaint her face. Much as she enjoys scaring Roman nobility, she has a feeling they will only revel in its exoticism tonight and has no desire to indulge their little fantasies. 

A hush falls over the banquet hall as she enters. All eyes turn to her, drinking in her presence. You’d think she were the magistrate, instead of the gutbucket in the corner lounging on the sagging couch. Conversation resumes quietly as she takes a seat to the side. She nibbles at the food, preferring to fix anyone foolish enough to look at her with her death stare. When the drinks are flowing they often want to touch the gladiators, getting a thrill from running their hands along the limbs that could kill them, making all kinds of indecent offers. Lexa has found that by glaring she can put most of them off before they approach. She sees Anya doing the same in the corner and her lips twitch up. Joy is hard to come by these days, it must be taken where possible. 

When she turns a blonde has moved to stand before her. Lexa regrets being distracted, thus robbed of the opportunity to appraise her as she approached. She settles for a quick once-over, pursing her lips to keep them from parting. The woman is beautiful. Not in the traditional, done-up to hide imperfections way of Roman nobles, but wild, almost unwittingly so. But Lexa has no time to fully admire her curves because blue eyes are raging with hostility. She doubts very much she’s here to cop a feel. 

‘You’re the ones who killed my father on the battlefield of Gaul,’ she snarls, voice dripping with hated.

Lexa squares her shoulders and steps forward, meeting the fiery eyes with intense green. 

‘You’re the ones who sent him there to steal our land,’ Lexa replies, voice low and even.

Lexa studies her face; raw, red eyes, dark bags, hollow cheeks. She knows loss and this woman’s was recent. There’s little chance Lexa was even in her country when it happened. But she’ll be damned if she lets her people be shamed for defending themselves.

‘I’ve seen you, in the arena,’ she spits out contemptuously. ‘You’re savages. You fight like savages.’

Lexa’s jaw works and she’s tempted to oppose her accusation, launch into a monologue on the rich culture of her people, their superiority to Roman scum. But she feels herself hardening at the disdain in the woman’s eyes. She’s not worth it.

‘We are who we are,’ Lexa snarls, chin jutting arrogantly into the air. 

The blonde stands there, glaring at her for a moment. Then leans back suddenly and spits violently in her face. 

‘I’ll be watching tomorrow, smiling as you die.’

Lexa doesn’t deign to reply or wipe her spittle from her face. She stares, cold and impassive, until Clarke turns and walks out of the room. The room is silent again, all eyes on her. She waves away the slave that hurries forward to wipe her face, taking the cloth and doing it herself. Gustus is nearby, ready to intervene, but she shakes her head slightly. She will show no weakness.

Stupid, spoiled girl. And she had the gall to call Lexa a savage before spitting on her! 

Lexa breathes, steadying her anger. Now she has to stay longer. To leave would mean admitting that the girl’s words had stung. She reaches for a goblet of wine, draining it and motioning for a refill. Who told her idiot father to invade her land anyways? Lexa hates the reminder of what the Romans have done. Hates that she’s here at their ridiculous feasts and fighting for their pleasure rather than home commanding her armies and defending her land. She would’ve killed the girl’s father without hesitation, and any like him that dared take what was theirs. 

Mostly though, she hates herself for seeing the pain churning in those eyes. For knowing what it’s like to live with that, imagining her vengeance with every slash of her swords. She understands what the girl is feeling and she hates knowing. It feels like empathy. Empathy is too close to sympathy.

She pays her dues begrudgingly, humoring her ogling admirers. Titus beams from his corner of the room, pleased that his gladiators were easily the day’s favorites. Lexa hears talk of Rome. She doesn’t care much for it. There would only be bigger battles, more death. She sighs when she finally feels she’s stayed long enough to return to her quarters. Titus intercepts her at the door.

‘You fought well today, Heda,’ he croons, her title dripping with sarcasm. ‘Shall I send someone down? Take your pick.’

He motions to the various girls waiting around the room, their purpose glaringly obvious. This is Titus’s way of rewarding her. Her prize for killing on command. A ploy the noblemen use to make themselves feel more civilized in their war games. We may force you to kill each other for sport, but if you are worthy we give you food and pleasure before you die. 

Lexa thinks of taking one of the young things back to the room and fucking her senseless, her screams momentarily silencing the ghosts in Lexa’s head. She finds she has no appetite tonight. 

‘No. I want to be alone,’ she replies, and pushes past him without another word.

\-------

The games go exceptionally well. Despite a slash to Gustus’s leg which forced him to stay back one day and an arrow to Indra’s shoulder she kept insisting was nothing, they sustained only a few minor wounds and emerged the undisputed favorites every day. They were quickly becoming somewhat of a legend with their iconic warpaint and ruthless fighting.

Lexa found herself continually searching the crowds for the impudent blonde with furious eyes. She was not disappointed. She was there every day, sitting tensely in the stands, eyes fixed on Lexa. Lexa drew power from her stare, channeling the stranger’s rage into every thrust and slash of her sword. She wanted to see Lexa die? Well, Lexa would be damned before she gave her that satisfaction. She was better than ever, and the crowds went wild, chanting her title long after she had left the arena, hovering to catch a passing glimpse of her. 

Anya and Gustus took to teasing her, calling her out for trying to impress her girlfriend, but Lexa just scowled. It wasn’t like that. The girl had insulted her honor and she was bent on making her as miserable as possible by surviving. She always zeroed in on her after the fight, standing in the sand soaked with Roman, Spainish, or Numidian blood. She met Lexa’s gaze unflinchingly each time, eyes dripping with disdain and the silent promise that when Lexa fell she would be there to see it. Her will to survive had never been stronger.

She didn’t come to any more feasts, though Lexa found herself swamped with attention from men and women alike. The other members of her Kru were more than happy to take advantage of this. Why not use the Romans as they were using them? Lexa succumbed on the last night, picking a young senator’s daughter who bore some resemblance to Clarke while lacking all of her spirit. Back in her room, knuckle deep inside the girl whose name she couldn’t remember, she was too tired to fight the images of piercing blue eyes and wispy strands of blond hair. She closed her eyes and let them wash over her as she fucked her to ecstasy. 

\-------

Titus is giddy with excitement on the final day and Lexa is disgusted by the greed dancing in his dull, marble eyes. Rome. They’re going to Rome! He’s finally got his big break.

Despite her renown fearlessness in battle Lexa finds herself worrying on the journey. She knows how it is for new gladiators in the Colosseum. They are used as props, pitted against the favorites at terrible odds so the crowd can see their champions win. True, she’s no longer the Heda she once was, commander of a force that continuously brought Rome to its knees. She has only limited power here. But still, she’s some form of leader to her motley band of warriors, and she feels the burden of protecting them. 

As much as she wanted to despise her enemies’ capital, Rome is impressive. It’s a cesspit of muck and crime, to be sure, but it’s also teeming with life like no place she’s ever been. Everything seems within reach. There is constant talk of intrigue and politics whispered on the fringes of raucous parties competing for decadence. But there is also order and systems that, for the most, part keep people in line. Lexa is fascinated by a people at once so civilized and primitive. 

And fighting in the Colosseum. It’s like nothing she’s experienced before. It’s not quite the same thrill as being on a real battlefield, but it’s a different kind of rush. Thousands of people simultaneously holding their breath, gasping, cheering, booing. Being the cause of that energy. There is certainly an intoxication to it. She sometimes finds herself scanning the crowd, looking for the familiar face she has grown to…loathe? Is it loathing when you hope to see it? When the thought of those eyes watching you gives you a thrill of excitement and boosts you to victory? Out of spite, yes. But still…

They do surprisingly well. The fights are considerably harder than what they’ve faced so far, but they are well prepared and soon join the people’s list of favorites. A mob is a mob after all, and if there’s one thing they’ve learned it’s the theatrics of battle. Lexa worries most when they have individual fights and her people’s fate is out of her hands, but they’ve trained hard, tirelessly, and in the few fights they do lose the crowd is on their side and their lives are spared. 

Lexa herself is undefeated, and as her value grows Titus’s meddling increases, much to her dismay. He is intent on cutting her off from anything and any one that might be a distraction. She is allowed to mingle with her Kru, of course, but other than that her contact with people is restricted and monitored. It isn’t that much of a problem, considering Lexa has no intention of becoming attached. But his pathetic displays of dominance are getting old and Lexa knows the day will come when he’ll push her too far and regret it.

\-------

It’s set to be an easy day and Lexa is looking forward to it. The emperor has just returned from some victory or others and 30 days of games are scheduled to celebrate. The first day is for amateurs; political criminals the senate wishes to make examples of, petty thieves, freemen who have decided to try their luck in the arena for a chance at fame. 

Today the organizers have pit the freemen against the criminals. Kru’s role is to simply wait in the tunnels. If, by some stroke of luck, the criminals manage to beat the more experienced freemen they will be called in to put an end to their little ideas of surviving past the first day. The game is rigged, sure, but that’s what happens when you’re arrested and sentenced to death for crimes against the empire. It feels a bit like butcher’s work and they’re all hoping they won’t have to go in. Being the emperor’s executioner is not something Lexa is sure she can stomach.

She hears the crimes being read out. The emperor’s cupbearer apparently tried to poison him, a noblewoman stabbed her husband for screwing her sister, an argentarius stole money from the state. The crowd dutifully boos and hisses after each name is called. But it’s unenthusiastic. If there’s one thing Lexa has learned it’s to read the crowd and this one is getting bored fast. They’ll want blood. Which is convenient because the chances of them seeing any good fights are slim today. 

‘And finally, Clarke Griffin,’ the herald cries. 

A hush falls over the crowd. This convict is different somehow. Lexa is paying attention.

‘A daughter of Rome to whom Rome had given everything. Which she repaid by murdering a general in cold blood, an arrow through the heart as he walked through the marketplace in our great capital, the one place in the world where he thought he could be safe. General Pike was a hero to our empire. His campaigns in Gaul were pivotal in quashing the barbarian rebellion and bringing peace to the province. May her death bring the senator’s family the justice they deserve.’

The crowds’ roar is more authentic this time. Whatever they may have thought of the general in life, he has now become a symbol of their patriotism in death and they can only wish the most gruesome death on its perpetrator. 

Lexa cannot see the prisoners from where she stands behind the barred gates, but she watches the freemen being let in. They are young, with chipped, mismatched armor and far too much bravado. They eagerly salute the crowd who respond with limp cheers. They’re doing it all wrong. If you want the mob’s approval you are not worthy of it. 

The signal is given for the fight to begin and Lexa watches lazily, half-hoping for a glimpse of the prodigal daughter of Rome. What she does see makes her breath catch in her throat. 

It’s her.

She of the blond hair and angry eyes and need to blame Lexa for her father’s death. Her hair is grimy and she’s thinner than in Lexa’s memories, but there is no mistaking it. 

It all makes sense. General Pike would’ve commanded her father in battle. She must have somehow connected him to his death and sought revenge. 

Lexa watches her fight, swinging the sword awkwardly as if unaccustomed to wielding a thing of that size and weight. She is not altogether clueless though. Her instincts are good and she manages to hold her own against a superiorly trained freeman. Lexa is riveted. As far as fighting goes it’s well below mediocre. She should be bored. Or feel nothing at all. But she feels, she doesn’t know what. Fear? Adrenaline? Hope? Whatever it is it surges up within her as she watches the freeman slowly tire Clarke out. 

In what can only be described as a hopeful swing he manages to knock the sword from Clarke’s hand, the force of it sending her to knees. The crowd roars. It’s obviously the fight they’re watching. Clarke hurries to rise, but his blade is at her neck and she freezes. The man hesitates, he probably hasn’t killed before, certainly not in front of a crowd. 

It’s enough time for Lexa to make her decision. With a swift elbow to one guard’s face and a knee to the other’s groin, she storms through the gates. The man barely has time to register Lexa’s approach when she hurtles her dagger through the air. She’s a good 50 feet away, but it hits him square in the shoulder of his sword arm and he falls, sword grazing Clarke’s neck. The crowd roars again, louder than they have all day.

The rest of the freemen turn and gape as Lexa sprints the rest of the way to Clarke’s side. She kicks Clarke’s fallen sword at her before unsheathing hers and standing, back to Clarke, to face the men. The spectators have risen to their feet, thrilled at this unexpected turn of events. The men regroup and charge, five left. Lexa sees her Kru have also entered the arena, but are making no move to join her, apparently judging the threat to be less than worrisome. 

The men’s approach is clumsy and uncoordinated. Lexa slices through them, twirling and parrying and slashing. She goes for their limbs rather than their torso, judging they’re green enough to give up after one serious wound. She’s not wrong, with a few exaggerated cries of pain, they fall or limp away. The last two skittering off before they get a taste of her blade. The mob cheers. 

She turns to Clarke. Her eyes are angrier than the first time they met. Lexa thinks that’s an odd way to greet the person who saved you. The Colosseum falls silent. She turns to see the emperor standing, staring down at her with contempt. He whispers something to the herald.

‘It would appear,’ he announces, ‘that the traitor has found a champion. A traitor’s ally is the enemy of Rome.’

Lexa scoffs. Is he serious right now? She’s already a fucking enemy of Rome. Why else would she be standing here covered in their blood?

‘Warriors,’ he continues turning to the rest of her Kru, ‘your Heda seems confused. Do her job and kill the traitor. Whoever does will be granted freedom.’

The crowd is silent, with the odd yell ringing out here and there. They’ve watched them fight together for months. They know what this means, however flippantly the order was given. 

Lexa watches them approach, jauntily. Anya is smirking. Indra and Gustus look ready to kill the emperor. Lincoln and Nyko follow, faces impassive. Quint is at the front, walking at a slightly more determined pace. She hears Clarke inhale sharply behind her. She doesn’t dare turn, staring down her men.

‘Chil yo daun,’ she commands, voice steady and unquestionable. 

They come to a stop a few feet away.

‘Heda, disha ste madness,’ Indra states. ‘I know you have some weird obsession with the girl, but she’s one of them. It isn’t worth it.’

‘No one touches her,’ Lexa replies, stance menacing. 

She knows they can take her. They’ve followed her because she’s fearless and fiercely loyal to them. Will they follow her now that she’s putting their lives at risk for a stranger? Now that freedom is the promised prize? She locks eyes with each one in turn, unflinching, willing them to trust her. The crowd holds their breath as the showdown unfolds.

‘I’m not risking my life for some Roman cunt whose father killed my brothers,’ Quint snarls, and lunges. 

He tries to sidestep Lexa, but she blocks him, meeting his longsword with both of hers. The crowd awakens at the clash, thrilled at the first real fight of the day. They are both fast. Quint is taller, stronger, and he puts the bulk of his weight behind every blow. Lexa is more agile and sidesteps while parrying, deflecting the full brunt of his weight. She watches him, waiting for an opening. It comes when he grows impatient, charging her at a sprint. She twirls away and she buries one sword into the back of his leg. His scream echoes through the arena. 

He still manages to turn, thrusting upwards with his sword. Lexa sees it coming, blocking the blow with her sword and delivering a hard kick to his hand. The sword flies a few feet away and he is left on all fours.

‘Ste daun,’ Lexa hisses, disdain dripping from her voice. 

She turns to the rest of her warriors, breathing hard. Moving once more to stand before Clarke.

‘Jomp em op en yu jomp ai op.’

They are quiet. Then slowly, Anya first, then Gustus, followed by the rest, they approach. Instead of facing Lexa, they encircle her and Clarke, backs to them. A defensive position. A direct challenge to the emperor’s order.

The crowd is silent. Lexa remembers their tedium, the bloodlust that was in the air. Has it been sated? If they call for blood the emperor can simply flood the arena with guards and they wouldn’t stand a chance. A mob is a fickle thing and one can never tell.

But luck is on their side. The crowd cheers. Cries of ‘Heda’ and ‘Nightblood’ fill the air along with calls for mercy. The emperor has little choice. Either he lets them live or faces a stampede. She faces the emperor, bears his glare and returns it with one of her own. She knows they have won before his thumb is pointed upwards. The crowd cheers wildly again and they take it as their cue to leave. 

Clarke marches among them, eyes down, steps measured and breaths even. If her life flashed before her eyes there is little evidence of it now. She is stoic, collected, and Lexa finds she admires that. That is, until the pass through the gates, just out of sight of the crowd, and Clarke rounds on her violently.

‘What the hell? Why the fuck would you think I wanted to be saved by you?’

\-------

Clarke is fuming, a tempest of emotions raging inside her. The remnants of fear and anxiety, fight or flight mode still activated. Confusion, why the hell is Heda intervening and fighting her own men? Relief, she’s not going to die today. But anger, anger is easiest. Anger is familiar. Anger is her fuel, because anger is empowering and sadness is depleting. And she’s furious at the Celt for saving her, enraged at being in her enemy’s debt.

She knows she didn’t kill her father, she wasn’t anywhere near him at the time of his death, given that she’s been a gladiator for over six months. But hating her still feels good. Hatred needs a target, a face, and a race is too generalized. A commander who was responsible for numerous victories against her people, that was better. Even if she wasn’t directly involved. Not like Pike.

She learned that her father's death had been no accident, that he had been stabbed in the back on the battlefield after discovering that General Pike had foreknowledge of an ambush and still sent two centuries to their deaths for the sole purpose of riling up the remaining forces against their enemy. Clarke took the knowledge to the magistrate, to the senate, only to be dismissed every time on the claims that her charges were absurd and warned against spreading slander against a general of Rome. So she decided to take matters into her own hands.

It had felt thrilling, pursuing justice. observing him, planning the attack, thinking of her father with an arrow posed on the string. But after she had let loose—a perfect shot—and his body dropped to the ground with a thud, she felt hollow. Her father was still dead. General Pike was too, but the wails of his wife at her loss did nothing to assuage Clarke's.

The rest of the day passed in a trance, being arrested and charged, placed in a cell below the Colosseum, a couple hours' training in how to hold a sword.

Only when she was ushered into the arena, light blinding and crowds calling for her death, did she wake up, senses suddenly razor-sharp, one goal in mind: survival. She wanted to live! More than ever before. In an instant she understood the feeling she had hitherto only been a spectator of, the stubborn will to cling to life at any cost when hundreds wished you to die.

She fought desperately, more adrenaline than skill, and didn't bother to consider how the odds were stacked against her. Until she was kneeling in the sand, sword at her throat, realizing that they would never have let her walk out alive.

Then she was there, twirling and slashing and thrusting, and all Clarke could think was how magnificent she was up close. Fearless, decisive, lethal. She watched her stare down her own warriors, out-maneuver a man twice her weight and just as fearsome; saw her defy the emperor himself and prevail. She watched with the same rapture as the mob because Heda simply commanded awe.

And then it hit her. As they walked off the arena, she felt the anger rise within her. This was her enemy. And she had swept in and fucking saved Clarke which meant what? That Clarke was in her debt? Death would've been better than charity from the people who killed her father. Well, the people who were related to those in the vicinity when he was killed, but who fucking cares? He wouldn't have been in Gaul if these fucking barbarians could respect the Empire.

'Why would you even do it? You think I wanted to be saved? A little prop to help you spite the emperor? You think this means I'm in your debt? That you can keep me like some fucked up version of a pet? If that's the case you can go fuck yourself.'

The warrior stands, fixing her with her intense, impenetrable stare. Her face is unreadable and Clarke hates it. 

'Clarke Griffin is now under my protection,' she says to the rest of the room, eyes never leaving Clarke’s. 'Let it be known.'

'Like hell I am,' Clarke replies and storms off.

She doesn't get very far. Guards are waiting to escort her back to her cell. She collapses on the hard bed, staring at the damp ceiling. She feels cornered, trapped, like a pawn in other people's games. But Clarke is not a pawn. She needs to master this new game.

\-------

Titus is fuming. Pacing and wagging his finger at Lexa, who remains impassive in the center of the room.

'We were there. We had Rome in the bag. You were on your way to becoming one of the greatest living gladiators. And now this. What in Hades possessed you to do something so foolish?'

Lexa is silent, letting him tire himself out with his tirade. The truth is she still isn't sure why she did it. The easy answer is to spite the emperor, to show that regardless of his sentencing she had the power to decide who lived or died in the arena. But the truth is more complicated. Seeing Clarke in the sand, blade at her neck, she knew she simply couldn't not. That knowledge is disturbing.

'You realize that it was all for nothing, right? By Zeus, you challenged the emperor and saved the prisoner whose death he had personally come to watch. What's to stop him from simply sending his guards in to kill you both?'

'The same thing that kept him from doing it in the arena: the crowd. This may be a game, but it's a dangerous one. He can't afford to lose the crowd, and they ruled in our favor today. If he sends his guards to kill me or Clarke in some dungeon he's a cheating coward. The emperor's vanity would never allow that. I've set the rules to the game and now he must play. I am Clarke's protector and as such he must kill me in a fair fight to get to her.'

Titus is quiet, recognizing the truth to her words.

‘Not to mention the fact that you cost me a gladiator. It may be weeks till Quint can fight again, and even then it might never be as before.’

Lexa scoffs in disdain.

‘Let him find a new kru to fight with. I will not enter the arena with traitors.’

Titus’s eyes narrow dangerously.

'Don't think you're untouchable, Heda. Gladiators are deadly weapons and they will not hesitate to rig the games against you. Your days may well be numbered.'

'Let them come,' she replies quietly, jaw set.

\-------

And come they do. Lexa finds her entire schedule for the games revamped. Their first move is to isolate her, no more fighting with her Kru. Now it's all one-on-one, three-on-one, fight after fight. Her adversaries are more vicious than usual too, and Lexa can only imagine what they've been promised to plunge their swords into her heart.

But the crowd is more hers with every fight. It's all the romance of cheering for the underdog combined with the fact that the underdog continually thrashes stronger and stronger foes. It doesn't hurt that she looks like a war goddess made flesh. She ups her theatrics, war cries resounding through the stands, causing delirium. They cheer when she kills and when she shows mercy. They cheer when she refuses to salute their emperor and chant her name after every victory. 

At the end of the games she is exhausted, but relieved. It was a new feeling, fighting for Clarke, having her fate intertwined with hers. It made her more driven than she’s been since her capture. But knowing that one misstep could cost Clarke her life was also haunting. She dreamed of blue eyes flashing in anger at her failure before an axe severs the blond head from its body.

The end of the week means the end of the games, means Clarke is safe for more than a day, and that thought is oddly comforting. 

She hasn't seen Clarke since that day, she's been confined to her cell. But the guards are also in awe of Lexa and don't hesitate to provide information on her welfare. According to their reports she's healthy, if melancholic. Lexa charges them with giving her extra comforts, a blanket, better food, wine, in exchange for small tokens, a broken buckle from her armor, smudges of bloodstained warpaint after a battle. She is certain they can exchange these for far more than extra rations are worth.

Despite the emperor's displeasure, Titus is throwing her a feast to celebrate the end of the games. His initial anger has abated as Lexa won fight after fight, no doubt lining his pockets. He's sure to elevate her status considerably by putting her on display at a feast. As usual, Lexa is loath to go, preferring the solitude of her room to their decadent drunkenness. But she needs them so she goes.

She is bored as she sits and drinks with Anya. The whole Kru fared well at the games and are all still in fighting form. Well, all except Quint who may well never walk without a limp again. Lexa couldn't care less. He made his choice.

'Ah, guess we're not the only ones on display,' Anya drawls, gesturing towards the door.

Lexa turns to see Clarke being led in. She's been given a fresh blue toga and her hair is braided and piled onto her head in the typical Roman style. Aside from the hollowness in her cheeks, she looks very much like she did at their first meeting. Lexa's caught off guard, seeing her again. It's funny how we have an exaggerated opinion of how good memories are. Lexa's are nothing like the vision she sees, nothing compared to the way her body simultaneously tenses and flutters. 

She fights to keep her face neutral all the same, giving Clarke a slight nod in greeting. The blonde scowls and turns away sharply as if she's been slapped. 

\-------

Clarke feels her presence like a punch to the gut. It's like the air is charged and weighted, magnetic. Clarke hates the pull, the intensity. She rages against it, channeling whatever this turmoil is into anger.

'Trouble in paradise?' 

Clarke turns to see a woman sidling up to her, young, beautiful, arrogant. All the markings of Roman nobility.

'God, I could just eat her up!'

This referring to Lexa. Clarke turns in shock.

'What? Oh come on, all of Rome either wants to kill her or fuck her, or both.'

Clarke steals another glance at Lexa, who is currently enduring the advances of two boisterous men in togas. She smirks a little thinking of how she'll handle them if they push too far.

'I can see why some may feel that way.'

The woman scoffs. 

'Oh please, if people didn't want you dead already they certainly do now.'

'What do I have to do with it?' 

She looks at Clarke incredulously. 

'Seriously? What might well be one of the greatest gladiators in history has been fighting and defeating Rome’s finest, frustrating every one of the emperor's attempts to have you killed. You don't think they'd be even a little jealous? That kind of romance could make even the poets barf.'

'It's not like that at all,' Clarke says quickly.

'No? What's it like then?'

'She's...we're...her people killed my father. Well, they would have if the General Pike hadn't. I told her I wanted her dead. She's just doing it I get a rise out of me. Some kind of twisted form of torture.'

'So let me see if I understand, her people might have maybe killed your father because they were at war. But you've already found and killed the man who did, which Rome condemned you for. And now you have a goddess like that risking her life every day to protect you, and you still hate her?'

'Yeah, I guess that sums it up.'

Clarke can hear how ridiculous it sounds, but it doesn't mean it isn't true. Seeing Lexa brings up all the stories her mother told her about the barbarians. And hating is so much easier than hurting. Besides, she didn't fucking ask Heda for anything. There's no reason for her to be helping her unless it's part of some fucked up plan. A plan against Rome. A plan her father would've done anything to stop.

'You do realize she's pretty much the only friend you've got now, right.'

'We're not friends,' Clarke shoots back. 

The girl laughs again. 

'Is this all some game you're playing to make her want you more? Cause if it is, it's working. You know what they call her?'

Clarke shrugs, growing tired of this game. 

'Heda? Apparently it means commander in their tongue.'

Raven laughs again.

'Not her official name. They call her death. Which is surprising because I've watched her and she only seems to kill when necessary. I think it's because she doesn't hesitate to do it, doesn't flinch. If she wants you dead, you die.'

Clarke rolls her eyes a little. The last thing she wants to do is stand around discussing the Commander's exploits.

'They've got a nickname for you too.'

For the first time she's intrigued.

'What is it?'

'Well, Death over there can’t be tamed. That's why we love her. Won't even salute the fucking Emperor. A slave who acts like a queen and gets away with it. But for you, well for you she's fought her own and put her people at risk, you're the one she raises her swords for in the arena. That makes you her one and only master, or as the mob calls it, Commander of Death.'

Clarke stares at the girl for a moment. She hadn't thought of this, rotting away in her cell while her future was decided by others. If this is true, she's not as powerless as she imagined.

'It also means,' the girl continued, whispering mischievously, 'that to master Death one must master you. I'd be careful, princess.'

Clarke glares at her, daring her to try something.

'Whoa, easy tiger. I'll admit, I wouldn't mind a good sparring with her, if you know what I mean,’ an exaggerated wink leave little doubt to her intentions, ‘but I'm far too proud to be someone's second choice. Besides, her tall friend with the face sculpted by Artemis herself is much more my type.'

And with that she glides over to Anya, shamelessly leaning in and whispering what Clarke can only imagine is a fairly indecent proposition. Anya only raises her eyebrows in affected disinterest and Clarke is fairly certain how the story will end.

She looks back at Heda, conversing with Gustus in a corner, either not seeing or not caring that half the room is fixated on her. Her feelings are different now. Yes, her gut is still coiled and she feels like she could burst, but her more pragmatic side is working too. Lexa is obviously using her, but two can play that game. It's time for the Commander of Death to enter the scene.

\-------

Clarke hadn't planned THIS. She wanted to push Lexa--finally a name for the girl so she could stop using her obnoxious title--test her, see what exactly she would to for Clarke and why.

They'd been relocated to a villa outside Rome with a handful of other gladiator groups to train and await the next games. Clarke had been given slightly more freedom, the right to leave her cell during the day and mingle with the other gladiators. Apparently they wanted the treacherous daughter of Rome to be more than skin on bone for her next appearance. It was show business after all.

The sun had just set and Clarke wandered away from the quarters she shared with Lexa's Kru towards the boisterous laughter across the court. She smiled a little at the sound of merriment. Ok so maybe testing Lexa wasn't the only thing on the menu. 

As a free woman Clarke had been used to wine and parties. And sex. She had enjoyed her reputation as somewhat of a luminary in the bedroom, missed being coveted as a lover, and well, if the chances of her dying soon were higher than usual it only made sense to have a bit of fun while testing her protector.

Only she had miscalculated. The house she entered contained mostly Roman gladiators, men who had been fighting the Kru and losing badly, or who had hopes of beating Lexa in the upcoming games and claiming their freedom and the price on her head. Already well into their barrel of wine it didn't take long for them to grow hostile, cornering Clarke and shouting insults and accusations. Her heart pounded with a sharp kind of fear. She wasn't sure if they were going to fuck her or kill her first, only that both seemed likely. 

A hulk of a man had taken charge and was shoving her against a wall, bringing his giant hand across her face to the cheers of the onlookers. 

Clarke could feel the area around her eye beginning to swell as blood trickled down her cheek. She didn't dare cower or even flinch. Instead she stared him straight in the eye and he stilled.

'Do you really think killing me here with only a dozen witnesses will get you your prize? My death in the arena is worth far more than that.'

'Not officially, no. But the emperor and a great many senators are growing tired of you and your barbarian whore. I'll wager they'll pay me nicely for taking you off their hands.'

He sneered, but Clarke saw the uncertainty in his eyes. He was reconsidering his plan, but also unsure of how to back down and still save face in front of the other gladiators. His face set and he shoved her roughly against the wall. 

'In any case, they won't mind me having a bit of fun with you.'

Clarke tried to keep the terror from her eyes as her blood turned cold. She was not getting out of her unscathed.

Suddenly the air shifted in the room. Clarke felt it even as rough hands shoved her toga up. Then her attacker too stiffened, hands freezing.

'How dare you touch her,' a voice growled, and Clarke had never been more relieved.

The man attempted a scoff, but his face was pale as he released Clarke roughly and turned to face Lexa. Clarke could see other members of Kru as well, taking up positions around the room. Hands on their weapons.

'I thought I had made myself clear, but since you suffer from both stupidity and bad swordsmanship let me spell it out for you again. No one. Fucking. Touches her. If you want her you have to kill me first. Attempt it honorably and I will treat you as a worthy adversary. Try and bypass me again and I will kill you. Slowly. Over a long time as we reinvent the meaning of pain.'

Clarke heard the gulp. She noticed the rest of the Kru in various corners of the room. These drunkards didn't stand a chance. They part silently as Lexa tilted her head at Clarke before turning and marching out.

The walk back was quiet with the Kru breaking up at the entrance to go to their various quarters. Clarke was more shaken than she dare let on and hurried to her quarters where she hoped to wash her face and examine the damage. She was surprised when Lexa followed her in.

'What, so I don't get any privacy at all, Heda?' 

Her tone is much more bitter than she intended. She is angry that her plans were foiled, frustrated at being claimed, her possession fought over like that of a slave or cow. Once again Lexa is a convenient target.

She seems slightly thrown at Clarke's anger. Tightening her lips slightly.

'You're making it very difficult for me to protect you.'

'Yeah, well I didn't ask for your fucking protection.'

'And I suppose you would have preferred me to let those curs have their way with you.

'Why not,' Clarke shrugs, 'I went there looking for a good fuck in the first place.'

This she was not expecting, Clarke sees. Lexa's eyes darken and she looks flustered for the first time since they've met.

'Oh you don't like that do you?' Clarke asks, taking a step towards her.

Her eyes are focused, boring into the green ones, willing her to look away first. Lexa's jaw works and she gulps slightly, but she refuses to look down.

'And why is that, Commander?' Clarke asks, voice dripping slightly. 'Is it because you want to fuck me?'

Lexa's eyes flash and she finally drops them, glancing briefly at Clarke's lips before staring at the floor.

'That's it, isn't it. You want me. Well come on then, I've been frustrated enough for one evening. Let's see if you fuck as well as you fight.'

\-------

This is the last thing Lexa expected. 

She saved Clarke, had been risking her life to do so all month. Clarke was under her protection, she owed her her life. But here she was calling Lexa out. And she was right. 

Seeing her there, half-leaning, half-sitting on the table, hair disheveled, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, lips curled into a challenging smirk, eyes dark, hungry. Oh yes, Lexa most certainly wants her. She probably did since she first stood wiping her spittle from her face.

But it’s obvious that this is Clarke's bid for power. If Lexa wants her, she has control. If Lexa walks away, she proves her right, which might just be worse. The game is rigged in Clarke’s favor either way. There's also the fact that Lexa doesn't have sex with people who don't want it.

She steps forward, into Clarke's space, steeling her eyes. It's meant as a bluff, to intimidate her into backing down, but she feels her body flush with heat at their nearness. Clarke's breath hitches eyes staring straight into Lexa's. She feels a pull, too strong to push down. Her heart is pounding and she knows this feeling all too well, fight or flight. Heda doesn't flee.

She reaches down, hand on Clarke's throat, fingers circling the back of her neck, thumb tilting her chin up as she pulls her closer. It's possessive and the message is clear. Clarke's tongue teases her bottom lip and that's the last straw.

Lexa presses into her, crashing her lips together. Clarke moans, loudly, wantonly. Lexa's stomach plummets. There's no way Clarke doesn't want this. She lifts Clarke roughly onto the table with the other hand, and Clarke spreads her legs. Her hands are on Lexa now, on her hips and back, pulling her closer as her tongue teases Lexa's. Lexa feels her desire pool, ache. She didn't realize she was this hungry.

Her hand moves quickly up Clarke's thigh. This isn't some romantic play. She needs to be quick, assertive. Leave no question as to who is in charge. 

Fuck.

Clarke is dripping wet. It takes all of Lexa's willpower to turn her moan into a growl. Clarke doesn't have that problem, moaning shamelessly against her lips as Lexa touches her. Lexa circles her entrance, testing. Power plays aside she doesn't want to hurt her. Doesn't seem likely though. She slips two fingers in, slow and hard, and Clarke releases a little cry of relief, biting down on Lexa's lip. 

Lexa tastes blood as she pulls her fingers out and thrusts again, hard and fast. Clarke's moans match the intensity of her thrusts as she grinds down. 

Fuck!

It's never been so... She's never needed... 

Clarke is staring her straight in the eye and she feels like she's the one laid bare, ravaged. She buries her head in Clarke's neck to avoid her eyes, teeth grazing, tasting, and fucks her harder, using the force of her hips against her hand. Her palm is soaked and she presses it to Clarke's clit. Clarke groans, arching her back and fucking Lexa's fingers with shameless abandon. She's close. Lexa curls her fingers and feels Clarke's nails rake down her back. A few short thrusts and Clarke tenses, freezes. Then she clamps down on Lexa's fingers, legs gripping her harder as wave after wave crashes through her body. Lexa pulls back, transfixed at the way her lips part, veins in her neck popping, eyes glazed. 

Fuck. 

She presses her own legs together to keep from coming at the sight.

Clarke opens her eyes, breathless and a little dazed, and Lexa wants to kiss her. Not the bruising battle of lips from minutes ago, but something softer, tender and grounding. She wants to taste her. Clarke smiles, slow and smug and satisfied, and she wants to taste that too.

But an image flashes through her mind, smoke and blood and a head with curly chestnut hair and passionate eyes which were then dull. A head brandished wildly in the fist of a man who would soon die. She stiffens, pulls her hands harshly back as if touching Clarke is physically painful. She turns quickly and flees the room. 

The wall of her own room is cold and she presses her head to it as her breaths come in harsh and gasping. She was not Clarke. Clarke is alive and well and...and she almost kissed her. A real kiss. The kind she swore she'd never give again. She feels herself fraying, coming undone at the edges, and she fights to clamp it all down, put it back behind the dam she struggled to build.

Ten minutes later she is breathing normally, her mind clear. She begins to turn over the events in her head. She sparred with Clarke, (images of her gyrating and moaning, fingers tingling with the memories of being inside her, warm, wet, soft...STOP) and lost. Conclusion: Clarke is best avoided as much as possible when one is intent on protecting her.

\-------

The next few days go by slowly, awkwardly. True to her resolution Lexa avoids Clarke. They do not speak, which is pretty much how things were before, and when Clarke enters the room Lexa quickly finds the most plausible excuse to leave. 

Clarke seems different, more curious than hostile. On sensing that Lexa wants little to do with her she doesn't push what is clearly her advantage, she tries to accommodate it. She also makes protecting her easier by mostly sticking to their quarters and training grounds and avoiding the other gladiators. 

Lexa should be grateful for this as it makes things easier. Except it doesn't. Clarke’s hostility was clear cut, predictable. This is strange, complex, unnerving. The painful tug she feels whenever Clarke is near is becoming chronic.

\-------

The day is warm and Lexa, having spent the morning training, is practicing her Latin in a corner of the yard while the Kru continues training. She prefers to read out here, surrounded by the familiar clashes and grunts of combat. 

Clarke is there too, at the other end of the court. She's sitting with a wax tablet and stylus and, judging by the wide strokes, doodling rather than writing. Lexa tries to keep her focus, only allowing herself brief glances out of the corner of her eye, but she finds her eyes skimming the page repeatedly as her mind wanders to Clarke.

Suddenly there is a clattering sound and she sees the blonde jump as Anya throws a sword at her feet.

'Up, Roman. Silly pictures won't get you anywhere. Let's see what you've got.'

Clarke considers her for her moment before shaking her head. 

'I'm good, thanks.'

Anya glowers and Lexa can't help chuckling. She knows that look. Anya never backs down when she has that look.

'Oh, you're good, are you? Well! That's just lovely. I'll leave you be then. It's not like Heda has sworn to protect you and your combat skills, or appalling lack thereof, could well mean life or death for her or the rest of us. As long as YOU'RE good I guess that's fine. We'll get back to our own training to save your ass, shall we?'

Clarke scowls, but Lexa is intrigued to see that she puts down her things and picks up the sword.

Anya walks around her, huffing as she examines her stance and adjusts her grip. Then she stands in front of her and motions for Clarke to attack. 

Clarke lunges and Anya swings, knocking Clarke's sword with a force that sends it flying from her hand. She scoffs and waits for Clarke to retrieve it. Clarke tries again, a bit more force in her attack, and Anya whacks back. This time Clarke barely managing to keep hold of the sword.

'How do you expect to fight if you can barely control your weapon?' Anya sneers.

'It's a lot heavier than a Roman sword,' Clarke shoots back through gritted teeth.

'And longer and sharper too, which is why a scrappy band of Celts can cause terrible damage to a Roman legion.'

Clarke doesn't offer a retort.

'I will show you the moves, but you must practice to strengthen your arms, get them accustomed to wielding the weapon.'

To Lexa's increasing surprise Clarke nods. Anya seems satisfied and they continue. Lexa lays the book aside, all pretext of being otherwise absorbed forgotten.

She watches as Anya teaches her some basic thrusts and parries, focusing on her evasion techniques and footwork. When they do clash Anya's hits are measured to test Clarke but not overpower her, it seems she considers that lesson taught and is going easy. Easy for Anya that is. Clarke has a wild, desperate look about her as she struggles to keep up with the older woman and is rewarded with blows that are sure to bruise when she doesn't. She is a little clumsy but not a complete amateur and picks up new moves fairly naturally. Her father was a soldier after all, and Lexa imagines she learned a few things up from him. 

\-------

Their weeks at the villa go by way too quickly. Clarke is happy to discover that she actually looks forward to her daily sessions with Anya. She can be harsh and her body is sore and achy each evening, but the exertion is the perfect outlet for her anger and it affords her the luxury of not thinking beyond where Anya might strike next. She finds herself growing stronger and more confident as she progresses. It’s not the bow. Archery is more individual. You take your stance, aim, shoot. Swordplay is just as much about the other person and you have to adapt to their style and way of fighting. Their size and strength determine your strategy in a much greater way. Anya has her practice with Lincoln and Gustus to feel the difference. Not Lexa. Never Lexa.

Lexa hasn’t spoken to her since that night and Clarke doesn’t know if she’s upset or relieved. She feels a surge in her chest every time she thinks about it. It was meant to be a power play, to turn the tables and show Lexa she wouldn’t be used. Except the way Lexa looked at her that night, raw and hungry, yes, but not predatorily, made Clarke rethink everything she thought she knew about Lexa’s motives. Lexa was rough, but still somehow gave more than she took. It was intense, more than either of them expected, more than Clarke had felt before. And afterwards, her eyes flashed with pain in a way that made Clarke want to pull her close and protect her. 

But Lexa was the enemy! Defeating Lexa’s represented her father’s life quest and it’s one of the few things she has left to cling to. 

She almost confronted Lexa several times, calling her out for avoiding her, except she doesn’t know what she wants. If she wants her to stay away why does she always search for her silent presence in the rooms or the yard? If she wants to tear her clothes off and return the orgasm, something she’s admittedly been thinking about more and more lately, does that make her a traitor to her father’s legacy?

She doesn’t know what to do and so does nothing. All she knows it that it can’t be casual, hasn’t been from the beginning. Whether in hate or passion, Lexa makes her feel more than anyone else. Like a bond that reaches straight passed the barriers that keep others at bay. That’s best left alone until she knows how to handle it.

They are back in Rome for the games and Clarke is back in her cell with a lot of time to think. The guards treat her surprisingly well and for that she’s grateful. She also allowed to take her meals and train with the other gladiators and Anya is more ruthless than ever. This is her life now. Fighting, surviving. Seeking Lexa’s presence and loathing the confusion that rushes through her when she finds it. 

They are crowding around the fighting schedule for the next day, looking for their mark and who they will be fighting with or against. Clarke feels anticipation and dread, marveling at what her life has become. She feels Lexa before she sees her, standing next to her, closer than they’ve been in weeks. 

‘I have charged my warriors with your protection. If I die they have each promised to continue protecting you. Whatever happens to me, you’ll be safe,’ Lexa states without preamble.

Clarke’s heart tightens and she turns to reply, but again she doesn’t know what to say. ‘Why would you do that?’ ‘I don’t need your protection.’ ‘Why do you keep looking out for me?’ ‘Thank you.’ Lexa has made arrangements to ensure her safety after death and Clarke has no idea what that means. What makes a person do something like that? She feels less like property and more like she is being honored by Lexa’s protection.

‘I thought you were indestructible,’ is what she settles for. 

Lexa scoffs, a bit of her smugness returning. 

‘So far so good.’

Clarke is not on the list. Lexa is set to fight the ‘White Gorilla’ tomorrow, whatever that means. Lexa’s face is impassive as she registers the information. She bids Clarke a curt goodnight before turning and heading out of the room.

\-------

She is yanked from her bed at dawn and told to prepare for battle. Plans have changed. She is now to enter the arena with Lexa. Clarke feels a small rush of hope. Is the emperor starting to forgive Lexa by lifting his ‘she fights alone that she might die’ method? Then her heart sinks. Clarke is not a warrior. She’s not being sent in to help Lexa but to distract her. If Lexa is trying to protect her, the chances of her getting killed are higher. Her stomach twists unpleasantly and she tastes bile. Breakfast is out of the question today.

It’s hard to keep her hands from trembling as she prepares. She’s in a room with a selection of clothes and weapons. She tried on the armor, but it’s much too heavy. She settles for exchanging her toga for pants and a shirt like those worn by the Kru. It feels strange at first, but comforting too, having less of her skin exposed. She looks at the array of swords, hesitating between the gladius and longer, Celtic sword. She turns at the noise behind her.

‘You’ve trained well, Roman, but you are far from ready to fight with those.’

A thrill of relief washes through her when she sees the bow in Anya’s hand.

‘How did you?’

‘It’s normally against regulations, not bloody enough for the arena. But Heda pulled a few strings. If you shoot her I’ll kill you myself,’ she adds matter-of-factly.

Clarke laughs even though she knows Anya is only half joking. Their devotion to Lexa is unshakable.

\-------

They’re standing at the gates and Clarke hears the roar of the crowds as their adversaries are let in. She’s about to fight for her life. Her blood runs cold. Lexa is beside her. Hands folded. Still. But Clarke sees a flicker of fear in her eyes. She’s watched her fight before. There was always determination, never fear. 

‘Remember, Clarke, my death is not the end. If I die my successor will protect you.’

‘We’re not dying here,’ she replies, because Lexa may have made peace with her death, but Clarke cannot accept it. She’ll keep this barbarian commander alive by sheer will if she has to. Anything else is unthinkable.

Lexa nods and the steely focus returns to her eyes.

The gates swing open and they walk blindly into the arena, crowds wild, hooting and cheering. They loved Lexa as ruthless, irreverent Death. They love her even more as a protector of the underdog, never mind that it’s unpatriotic. They move to stand before the emperor and Clarke joins Lexa in her refusal to salute him. This man already ordered her death, what more can he do? It’s empowering.

Then they turn to meet their foe and Clarke’s breath catches. The ‘White Gorilla’ is a man; 7-feet tall, with the width and limbs of his namesake. White armor covers most of his body and a helmet hides his face. There are two men with him, smaller by comparison but still bigger than her or Lexa. Clarke feels her fear return, but Lexa is calm now, focused, and Clarke draws on her strength. 

‘Stay behind me,’ she instructs. ‘I will give you cover to use the bow. Don’t hesitate to kill if it could save your life.’

Clarke nods and the herald signals the beginning of the fight. Lexa draws both swords and moves to stand in front of Clarke, slightly to the side to give her space. Clarke pulls an arrow from the quiver and draws comfort from the familiar motion of stringing it. They are circling, eyeing Lexa, watching for an opening. Lexa’s eyes dart between the three, ready to pounce on any that dares come for Clarke. The crowd is hushed in anticipation.

Then they move, the gorilla and one of his companions going for Lexa. Clarke immediately turns to the other man, who sure enough charges, hoping that Clarke will hesitate and he can reach her before he’s hit. She lets her arrow fly, hitting him in the shoulder. He yelps and staggers back, but doesn’t stop, resuming the charge with even more fury. Clarke’s hand trembles to find another arrow as he closes the distance. Lexa lets out a war cry and he turns momentarily, giving Clarke the time to shoot the second arrow. It punctures the leather breastplate, sinking into his chest. He lets out an agonizing scream and falls back. The crowd is on their feet. Clarke strings another arrow and turns. 

Lexa’s cry was a ruse. She is managing to keep the other two off, but fighting at a disadvantage. Their superior strength means that her strategy of choice would be nimbler, dancing around them and searching for an opening. Except she can’t because Clarke is behind her and if she moves she would be left unprotected. So she’s standing her ground, bearing the brunt of their double onslaught. Clarke sees her tiring. She aims for the smaller man and let’s another arrow fly, which he catches with his shield. The giant swings hard at Lexa, and she manages to deflect the blow, but the angle is awkward and his sheer force knocks the sword from her left hand. The crowd roars again. Boos mixed with chants of ‘Heda’.

Seeing Lexa occupied, the second gladiator comes for Clarke. Clarke sends arrow after arrow at him, but his rectangular shield is large enough to block them all. He’s in front of her now, leering at her, and Clarke feels helpless with her bow. She quickly strings an arrow but before she can shoot he swings his shield, knocking the bow and arrow to the floor and opening a gash in Clarke’s cheek. She’s defenseless now and the crowd grows silent. Is this the moment they’ve been waiting for for weeks? She thinks of the emperor’s glee, her mother’s despair, the crowds disappointment. She tries to duck away from him, but he kicks her hard in the side and she doubles over in pain. His eyes sparkle from behind his helmet. This is his moment of glory. He is already reveling in the rewards to come. 

Then the glee turns to shock and Clarke watches the blood spurt from his mouth. The crowd whoops in disbelief. He totters then falls forward. Clarke rolls quickly to the side to avoid being impaled. A sword is sticking out of his back. Lexa’s sword. Clarke turns and their eyes meet, relief washing through Lexa when she sees Clarke’s ok. But now Lexa has no sword.

The giant charges and Lexa ducks, jumping to the side and elbowing him in the ribs, he doesn’t seem to feel it. He turns and catches Lexa with the sweeping arch of his shield. There’s a sickening crunch as it makes contact with her shoulder. Lexa’s cry of pain makes Clarke’s heart stop. 

She hurries forward, finding her bow and an arrow. Squinting and pointing it at the gorilla as he towers over Lexa. Her aim is sure and the arrow penetrates his shoulder, just below his armor. He grunts loudly and Lexa has time to put some distance between them, but her shoulder is bad, broken or dislocated at least. He advances again, the arrow barely slowing his onslaught, and Clarke wonders what it would take to stop a man like that. Lexa sees her sword a ways away and makes for that, but he takes off after her, and she has to duck and roll to avoid his swing. She manages to pick up the first man’s shield, but she’s staggering a little now and Clarke watches helplessly as he lands blow after blow, chipping away at the shield. He’s emboldened now, tasting victory. Lexa isn’t quite fast enough to dodge one downward swing and it forces her to her knees. 

Lexa pulls a dagger from her ankle holster and turns to meet Clarke’s eyes for the last time. There is acceptance in them, peace. She knew this moment would come and the fire in her eyes tells Clarke she plans to take him with her. 

‘Your fight is not over, Clarke.’

The crowd is quiet, disbelieving, and she can just make out the words. It seems impossible that Death has fallen, that the mighty Heda is on her knees, letting her sword fall and using her only good arm to grip her dagger. Clarke remembers Lexa’s words. If she dies, Anya and Lincoln and Gustus and Indra will protect her. But she’ll be damned if she lets that happen. 

She picks up a sword and rushes towards the gorilla, releasing a cry of her own as she jumps and slices into his sword arm. He turns, more surprised than anything. It’s all the time Lexa needs. She’s up in a flash, slicing her dagger through the back of his knee and following it up with a hard kick. He lets out a bloodcurdling cry and falls, rolling onto his back and lifting his sword in defense. But Lexa already has the dagger to his neck. 

‘Yield,’ she commands through gritted teeth. ‘I have no desire to kill you today.’

He hesitates for a moment. Lexa is behind his head. If he tries to swing she’ll open his jugular before his sword is even close. He sighs and drops it in surrender. 

The crowd goes wild. This time the cries of ‘Wanheda’ are almost as loud as ‘Heda’. Clarke should feel proud, energized. But she feels sick. She killed a man. She almost watched Lexa be killed. She does not want to be honored for this. Lexa’s chest is heaving in obvious relief. With the fight over the guards motion for them to exist, which they are all too happy to do. They don’t wait to watch the giant be helped from the arena or the bloodstains covered. 

\-------

‘Let me out. I want to see her.’

Clarke has been badgering her guards for what feels like hours. 

After the fight they were taken to separate cells and she was allowed to wash and change. They haven’t let her out after that and her stomach is in knots from thinking about Lexa. Is she ok? Is her shoulder shattered? What will become of her if she can’t fight? She’s kicked at the door and raged at the guards, but they haven’t budged. She feels faint. She hasn’t eaten all day, being far too nervous to eat before the fight. 

Finally a guard opens the door, but much to her dismay leads her towards the food hall rather than Lexa’s quarters.

‘Please,’ Clarke says, realizing she’s not above begging for a little peace of mind. ‘I need to see her.’

The guard hesitates. Little does Clarke know he’s one of the ones in Lexa’s employ and he’s more concerned that Heda might not want to see Clarke than that his supervisor might find out. He finally relents and leads her down the corridor, motioning her to wait outside Lexa’s door. He comes back in a moment and lets her in, pulling the door shut behind them. 

‘Hello, Clarke.’

Lexa is seated on the bed, arm in some kind of sling. She looks tired but otherwise ok.

‘Hey,’ Clarke says, once again a little unsure of what to say now that Lexa is actually in front of her. ‘I just wanted to make sure you’re ok.’

Lexa nods. 

‘It’s just dislocated. It will heal.’

Clarke feels relief rush through her, whether it’s because her protector can fight again or Lexa isn’t seriously hurt she can’t tell.

The silence stretches, a little heavy.

‘You should have left me,’ Lexa says at last.

This is not what Clarke expected.

‘His swing would’ve left him open. I would’ve taken him with me. You would have been safe.’

‘And you would have been dead.’

Lexa scoffs a little. 

‘We’re gladiators, Clarke. We die. If you show weakness like you did today you will not live long. He could have swung and caught you. You were no match for him. I told you you would be protected after my death. What you did was impulsive. Foolish.’

Clarke feels a flare of anger. How dare Lexa lecture her after she saved her life. How dare she think her so lacking in honor.

‘Where I come from, when you save someone’s life people say ‘thank you.’’

Lexa is silent, watching her.

‘Who are you to tell me not to risk my life anyways? Isn’t that what you do every day? You were ready to die today to save me. What gives you the right to tell me I can’t do the same? Do you think I have no honor? Do you think I was protecting myself by avenging my father in the middle of the forum?’

Lexa seems taken aback by her outburst.

‘I-. That was different, Clarke,’ she says quietly turning away. ‘Some things are worth giving your life for.’

‘Don’t give me that horseshit when you just spent over a month risking your life to save mine.’

But then she catches her eyes and replays Lexa’s words in her mind, struck by the meaningfulness in them. For some reason Lexa considers her worth dying for.

‘Some lives are worth more than others,’ Lexa replies quietly. ‘I see something in you, Clarke Griffin, something I haven’t seen before. I know you consider us enemies but…I cannot help it.’

The last sentence is barely a whisper, as if the admission of weakness was torn from her. 

‘Perhaps you are right in saying I too am weak. But you, you cannot afford weakness if you wish to survive.’

Clarke feels her chest tighten again. That’s not what she meant at all. Lexa is perhaps the strongest person she knows. She meant that maybe it wasn’t really weakness. She takes a step closer.

‘Maybe life should be about more than just surviving. We deserve better than that.’

\-------

‘I don’t want to be protected, Lexa. I want you.’

Clarke’s voice is low and Lexa’s stomach flutters in response. Her heart is pounding and Lexa would blame it on the after effects of almost dying, except fighting has never made her feel the way Clarke does; vulnerable, hungry, hopeful. Her nearness is magnetic and Lexa feels herself falling. 

Clarke’s eyes don’t leave hers. There’s no loathing in them today. Now that she thinks about it, there hasn’t been in a while. The fire from earlier was more indignant than angry and now, now they’re filled with something that Lexa tries to tell herself isn’t there, something that tells her she’s an idiot if she thought Clarke could stand by and watch her die.

She leans in and Clarke grabs her neck and kisses her. It’s hard and hungry, in a way that only those who looked death in the eye can kiss. But there’s none of the struggle of their first kiss. This one is filled with longing and relief and when Lexa moans against Clarke’s lips she feels like she can finally breathe. She curses herself and struggles for control as Clarke slides her tongue across her bottom lip, hands slipping under her loose tunic to find her skin. She moans as her hands graze Lexa’s firm abdomen and Clarke breaks the kiss only to carefully pull her shirt over the sling. She kisses her again, harder, biting Lexa’s bottom lip as she straddles her. 

Fuck. This is exactly what Lexa was afraid of. It’s just sex, she tells herself. Clarke is good at it. They’re naturally suited, coupled with the adrenaline in their systems after surviving today. She grips Clarke’s hip and tries to shut down her mind as she grinds against her. She kisses back, chasing Clarke’s mouth, reveling in her gasp as she sucks on her bottom lip. She loves the taste of her. 

Clarke is impatient, rolling her hips in a way that sets Lexa on fire. She’s changed back into a toga after the fight and her bare legs grip Lexa’s thighs. Lexa slips her hand underneath it and palms her ass, gripping the smooth, warm skin and pulling her closer. Clarke is delicious, all luscious curves and untamed desire, and it inflames Lexa like nothing she’s felt before. 

Clarke tugs at her pants and she realizes just how wet she is when the fabric rubs against her. She swallows a moan, refusing to show just how affected she is. Clarke’s hands are deft and she has her pants undone in no time, lifting off so she can shimmy them down. She pauses above her, drinking in the sight of Lexa’s body, pupils dark with desire. Lexa feels herself clench at the sight. She tugs Clarke down and she falls to her neck, sucking her pulse and sending a jolt of electricity through Lexa’s body. She trails her tongue down, circling Lexa’s nipple. Teasing, flicking her tongue against it gently, before sucking it hard and releasing a gush of wetness on Lexa’s thighs. Fuck, she’s talented!

She releases her nipple coyly, grazing it slightly with her teeth before sucking kisses into her abdomen. She’s moaning against Lexa’s skin and her arousal sets Lexa on fire. She’s fucked a lot of women, but it’s never been so intertwined. They feel each other’s pleasure. It scares the hell out of her.

‘You’re a goddess,’ Clarke murmurs against her pelvic bone. ‘Like Venus with the powers of Apollo.’

Lexa grips her hair, hoping she’ll take it as a sign to continue. She doesn’t trust herself to speak. Clarke seems to understand, gripping her thighs and moving down, nipping at them teasingly. Lexa gasps, pulling her hair slightly, hating the way Clarke smirks at her desperation. She isn’t desperate. Not in life, not in bed. Clarke hums at the sight of her and Lexa can only imagine what she looks like, wet, dripping. Fuck! Her hips buck as Clarke slides her tongue through her folds, slow and hard, groaning as she tastes her. No, not desperate at all. 

Clarke coats her tongue in her juices, dipping the tip inside, sliding it up to her clit. Sweet Damara! Clarke’s eyes meet hers as she tugs her clit into her mouth, sucking, flicking her tongue against it. Lexa clenches, feels the tension building, coiling in her stomach, she’s almost afraid of what will happen when it bursts out. 

She grips Clarke’s shoulder, tugging slightly, and she understands, moving up till their bodies are pressed together. Lexa gasps as she feels Clarke’s slick pussy gliding against her thigh. She’s just as wet as Lexa. She slips her hand between them and slides two fingers into Lexa. Lexa gasps and Clarke immediately leans down and swallows it in a kiss. Greedy. She pulls out and thrust again, slowly, savoring the feel of being inside her, keeping Lexa right on the edge. She’s riding her thigh now and Lexa raises it, pressing into Clarke, loving the way she moans and fucks her harder. 

She’s looking at Lexa, watching her, drinking in everything she’s feeling. Her eyes seem to reach deeper than her fingers and Lexa feels bare, exposed. She freaks out. 

This is wrong. It’s too slow, too intimate. Lexa doesn’t…she can’t. She shifts, wanting Clarke to fuck her faster and get it over with, wanting to flip them over and take control. She should push Clarke back down where she can pretend it’s just sex and she doesn’t feel her very essence coming undone at Clarke’s touch. At the same time, she doesn’t want it ever to end. The way Clarke is looking at her, the way she moves against her, inside her. Her body screams for her to let go. But it’s too much. She can’t let the dam break. 

She grips Clarke’s shoulder hard, trying to push her back, and Clarke’s eyes flash with concern. She must see the panic in Lexa’s eyes. She stops, taking Lexa’s hand and entwining her fingers with her own. She presses her forehead to Lexa’s and kisses her softly. Lexa breathes shakily into the kiss and Clarke increases the pressure, tender but grounding. And Lexa can’t lie to herself anymore. It isn’t just sex. She needs Clarke and she’s tired of fearing it. Just like that, Lexa doesn’t care. Control be damned. What’s the point of living without this? This is the most alive she’s ever been.

She grips Clarke’s hand and rolls her hips down against her finger, wordlessly communicating that she’s ready to continue. Clarke begins moving again, slowly, spurred on by the breathy gasps from Lexa’s lips. She curls her fingers and Lexa bites her lip hard, swallowing her moan when she finds her spot. Clarke feels it though, brushing it again lightly. This time Lexa doesn’t catch the whimpered ‘Clarke’ in time. It’s almost a plea, but at this point Lexa feels beyond surrender. 

Clarke doesn’t make her ask twice. She increases the tempo, grinding on Lexa’s thigh as she nears her own release. Lexa comes with a stifled cry, clenching down around Clarke’s fingers which pushes her over the edge a moment later. Again Lexa is mesmerized by the way Clarke’s body tenses and grips hers as her orgasm shudders through her, eyes closed, back arched so that her parted lips are inches away from Lexa’s as she moans. Lexa feels it all, pressed against and above and inside her. It’s intoxicating.

Clarke doesn’t move when she’s done, not away that is. She settles down, still half on top of Lexa, leg between hers. Lexa knows she needs to try and make sense of this, but right now her eyelids are heavy and her body is sated and Clarke, Clarke is lying on her chest, tracing lazy patterns on her skin. Lexa can feel Clarke’s heart slow against her chest, her breath tickling her skin, the comforting weight of her body. It feels like the home Lexa hasn’t seen in years, only better somehow, the kind of good you don’t really hope for ‘cause it seems just a little too far-fetched. She reaches over and pulls a blanket over them deciding that thinking can wait.

\-------

Clarke hurries into the weapon’s room looking for Lexa. She had woken up with an airy kind of happiness as the events of the night before, only to find the bed empty. Her stomach plummeted and the tightness returned to her chest. She remembers the panic in Lexa’s eyes. If she didn’t talk to her for weeks after their first tryst Clarke can only imagine what she’ll do this time. This time was different. It had felt like a wordless admission of all the thoughts and feelings that had been churning within and between them, and admission of the bond that could no longer be denied.

She takes a deep breath, spotting Lexa in a corner. She’s not backing down this time. Not after what she felt. Lexa looks up at her approach and smiles, a genuine smile that lights up her face. Clarke feels warmth spread through her body.

‘Good morning, Clarke.’

‘Good morning, Lexa,’ Clarke replies, amusement twinkling in her eyes. 

Lexa’s smile grows.

‘I thought you might be so terrified of great sex that you fled the Empire this time.’

Lexa chuckles.

‘You were sleeping deeply and I did not wish to wake you so I came here to read.’

Clarke glances down at the book. Commentarii de Bello Gallico by Julius Caesar. 

‘I didn’t know you read Latin.’

‘I taught myself with a little help from a gladiator I met a few months ago.’

‘And Caesar’s account of his battles in Gaul? Interesting choice.’

‘I intend to know my enemy. Anything I can learn will be useful when I return.’

Clarke’s expression darkens at the thought.

‘How do you expect to return?’

‘I watch and I wait and I meet people. It won’t be long now. If I can manage to survive until then.’

‘I see.’

Clarke doesn’t know how to take this. What did she expect? That last night would change everything? They were prisoners, slaves, gladiators, condemned to fight and die for the amusement of Rome. Surviving simply meant they would get to amuse them a little longer. Of course Lexa wanted to escape. Of course she planned to return to her people, to help them defend themselves against Rome. What did Clarke think one good fuck would accomplish? Make her want to stick around and save her sorry ass perpetually?

She quickly schools her expressions into neutrality when she feels Lexa watching her. 

‘What are your plans, Clarke, when this is over?’

Her voice is soft and Clarke loves the way her foreign tongue clicks at the ‘K’ in her name. Then she suppresses a shudder as she remembers the sound of her name in a breathless whimper. She bites her lip and gets ahold of herself, only realizing she’s failed to answer the question when Lexa raises her eyebrows enquiringly. 

‘Um, I, I haven’t thought about it really. I didn’t know this would ever be over. I just wanted to get through it.’

Lexa seems nervous suddenly and looks away when Clarke turns to her. Clarke watches her chew on her lip, swallow. What is she thinking? Does she regret telling Clarke of her escape plan?

‘You should come with me to Gaul. It might change the way you view my people.’

‘You already have,’ Clarke replies without hesitation.

Lexa’s head snaps up, searching Clarke’s eyes. Clarke realizes there simply isn’t anyone like Lexa; strong, noble, selfless, reserved, yet passionate, proud, maybe a little broken. There’s that fear in her eyes again. The fear she’s only seen when Lexa is afraid of losing her.

She thinks of Rome, an empire that used and killed her father, first lying about it then denying her justice; a people content to sit and watch men try and kill her for challenging a corrupt system; friends that forgot they knew her the moment she was condemned. What was there to miss?

Clarke leans in and kisses her, soft and wet and warm. A kiss that holds the memories of last night and the promise of tomorrow. 

‘If I did come with you,’ Clarke says businesslike against Lexa’s lips, ‘I require certain things.’

‘What things?’ Lexa asks, eyes both hopeful and cautious.

Clarke has to fight to keep from laughing at what manner of strange objects Lexa might be imagining a spoiled Roman girl might need.

‘You,’ Clarke replies simply, brushing her nose against Lexa’s.

Lexa smiles again and Clarke is already addicted to the sight.

‘That can be arranged,’ she says, silencing Clarke’s retort with a kiss.

Clarke sighs, happier than she’s been since childhood. Sure, most of Rome is invested in their deaths, but if they can just survive, there might be somewhat of a future after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I unfortunately had to cut this short to post it on time. I might add a sequel sometime down the line depending on life.
> 
> Thanks for reading. :) You can find me on tumblr at @i-like-heda


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